


Law School is for Lovers

by ADazzlingConspiracy



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Brief Mention of Jack & Bittle, Check please au, Coming Out, Dad!Shitty, Gen, Oneshot, Other, Shitty as a parent, Shitty's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 15:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7320733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADazzlingConspiracy/pseuds/ADazzlingConspiracy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A heart wrenching romp through the what if scenario of Shitty being a single parent to a kid who's feelings of isolation and dsyphoria drive them to desperation in order to achieve happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Law School is for Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> All of this happened because of a group chat between some friends and I.  
> My one friend (who is the Bittle to my Shitty) said: "I just though of Shitty being a dad and I just...???? I'm crying"  
> Thus this oneshot was born. I hope you enjoy ~

Routine is a danger that so many of us fall into. Even myself. The most spontaneous and daring out of the whole gang. I fell into the habit of making bank. And good bank at that. Not that money can buy you those small moments in life where the world stops and your heart bursts from unbridled joy. But it can buy you a house and food. It gives you a means to provide for your beloved kin in this bullshit capitalist society.

Money is God and we all have to worship. Especially if I want my only child to conform to society’s strict laws on no nudity or not partaking in the five fingered discount. Should have stayed in that damn hippie commune I found that one summer. But I can’t be too salty about that. If I wouldn’t have gone to law school, I probably would have never met Adriana. But if fate exists perhaps we would have met regardless. And the outcome would always be the same.

I met Adriana when I was 25. A Brazilian-American beauty who trumped me at every turn. Not only was she older, taller, and darker but she was infinitely wiser than I’d ever be. A feminist and a low-key genius didn’t impress her one bit. She was quick to point out the privilege I had: I was able-bodied, white, came from a wealthy family, and presented and passed for male. Needless to say I was smitten from the moment she knocked me down a few notches. Quite frankly I needed it. The stuffy Harvard lifestyle was easy to fall into.

Despite her dislike of me and the rest of the white male population, I still tried to befriend her. We had a few classes together. When it was just the two of us against the narrow, conservative views of the rest of the class she flawless delivered punches that left them babbling and spinning for counter-arguments. She was going to be the best lawyer to ever leave this school. Pissing off the white and snooty was her sport. And holy damn was she the captain.

Somehow, I had charmed my way into her life. She allowed me to sit with her at lunch and in class. Only reason being I was the only one with “half a brain” on this entire campus. One might think she was pretentious but she earned the right. Over the following months, we became inseparable. I opened up to her easily. I talked about my stint in Hockey and at Samwell.  Eventually I talked about the mild emotional and psychological abuse I suffered from my over bearing family. I was an outcast within my family and always would be. She knew everything about me within only a few months. But I hardly knew anything about her. Emotions were easy for me. But for her, not so much.

The wounds she had eventually opened and for a while, I was afraid they would never shut again. She was born in Brazil but her family eventually moved to the US. Sadly, the land of the brave is not so kind toward immigrants who fall under being “not white”. Orphaned at ten due to hatred, she was put into the system until she was 18. She controlled her depression and anxiety through a hearty blend of the right medication and therapy. Poor eyesight and a learning disability stood in her way but she defeated them. Even when she lost her arm beneath the elbow, she was fitted with a prosthetic and sent on her way. Despite the constant oppression of being a brown woman she fought her way to come to Harvard.

Adriana was my hero. The fact that she gave me the time of day is beyond me. Her choosing to sleep with me while totally sober is still perplexing. The most baffling occurrence of all is why she said yes to marry me. I guess half brains are the new sexy.

Adriana was my number one until Isabelle – or Izzy as I called her – came along. The moment that kid was born I cried for a solid twenty minutes. Adriana told me to shut up and that she should be the one crying on the count of she just pushed a 9 pound baby out of her vagina. That made me laugh. But then I started crying again. When Jack and Bittle came to visit Izzy, I cried when I had to stop holding her. Needless to say that kid has made me cry. A lot.

First words? I cried. Adriana eye rolled. First steps? Crying. First poop in the potty? Ugly sobbing. I’ve always been a crier but that kid made me waterworks central. Every time they got a good grade on a test or scored a goal, I cried. I think I cried so much because my own parents never were so overcome by emotion (except maybe anger) whenever I did something. I was proud of anything and everything Izzy did. Even when she put her poop in the sink and tried to shove it down with my toothbrush. She could do no wrong in my eyes. I thought she knew that. But then again, that was before our lives changed from a fairytale back to harsh reality.

Adriana was diagnosed with late stage bone cancer when she was 39. I was 37, Izzy was 9. The same age when Adriana lost her parents. But Izzy would never lose me. I had to be around forever to bug her and be proud. At least those were my intentions.

Adriana’s death was hard on both of us, needless to say. It’s been eight years. Izzy is a distant and moody almost adult. I’m a workaholic. I do try to be home for dinner every single night but the life of a talented lawyer is never a dull one. I’m constantly doing something. Taking in new clients, at court, doing paperwork. Now, anytime I call to say that I’m going to be late she no longer sounds disappointed. Which is worse. Apathetic acceptance removes the emotional meaning of disappointment. That was unacceptable. Tonight, I’m going to be home early.

After several headaches of pushing back meetings for later in the week, being yelled at by a client, and a long line at the grocery store, I still made it home by 4:30. I decided on making Izzy’s favorite: Alfredo garlic parmesan shrimp with linguine. I bought fresh shrimp, so I would have to wait for it to thaw. After rolling up my sleeves and washing my hands, I got to cutting the tails off the shrimp. As I worked on the sauce, I threw the shrimp into a skillet to sauté. After about 40 minutes, it was finished. Excitement bubbled in my chest as I ascended the stairs to fetch Izzy.

However that excitement was short lived. As I walked into Izzy’s room, she was standing in her bathroom, half turned away from me. But I could see she was holding a syringe and needle to her skin, ready to inject something. She must have heard her door open because she turned toward me, wide-eyed.

I opened my mouth to speak but I just stared. My child is doing drugs? Don’t get me wrong, I smoked a lot of pot but I never injected anything into my body. Is it heroine? Or some cheaply made new age drug that is a deadly concoction?

“Izzy…” was all I could choke out. My feet shuffled closer to her but not too close. I didn’t want to corner her. When I was closer I finally looked at her. Truly, looked at her. Those big brown eyes that looked exactly like Adriana’s were full of a deep sadness. Nausea swept over me. I’ve lived with her for years and I didn’t notice how sad she is? What kind of parent am I?

A few months ago, she had cut her hair really short. Her taste in clothing and music had changed. It’s a part of being a teenager. These are all normal things. I accepted them. I let her do whatever she wanted. But standing here in this moment I realized that she was trying to reach out to me. These were desperate attempts to get my attention but I just blindly accepted them, instead of asking why and then accepting.

I was crying quietly at first. But as I tried to speak, it turned into sobbing. “I-I’m..” sob. “s-s-soooo” wail. “s-s-sorry” choking. Izzy eyed me wearily. I don’t blame her. Here was a grown ass man sobbing in his child’s bedroom. I should be yelling at her for putting drugs into her body. But I can’t. I’m blaming myself for failing as a parent.

‘Dad…” Izzy came out of the bathroom and wrapped her arms around me. Then she began to cry. But much like her mother she at least was a functional crier. I’m basically useless until it stops. She leads me to her comfy spinny computer chair and she sat on her bed. “Dad. You don’t have to be sorry. It’s not your fault that I’m…” She chocked back a sob. “That I’m…” Her tears wouldn’t stop. I finally pulled myself together. I sat next to her on the bed and held her, softly humming as I blinked away more tears. She pulled away from the embrace and simply looked up at me, as if she was trying to find something.

“Dad. I’m…not a girl. I-I’m a boy.” She, no he, flinched at the word. Or away from me. I’m not sure which. “I’m sorry but I’m not your daughter.” Desperation and sadness flooded his eyes. I began to cry again. Why couldn’t he have told me sooner? What did I do to make him feel like he couldn’t tell me? Work, work, work. Damn it all.

“I’m sorry that I’m not…normal.” He got off the bed, keeping his back to me. Body shaking.

Quickly, I composed myself, pushing aside all these selfish feelings. I gently turned him toward me. He was nearly as tall as I was. My son.

“You’re my son. You were never destined to be normal.” He whipped his head up. Behind the tears, I could see hope shining in his eyes.

“Your son…”A steady stream flowed from his eyes but it was from happiness. Burying his face into my chest, he laughed and cried. I held onto him tightly, also laughing and crying. I loved him. No matter his identity, he would always be my kid.

Suddenly he pulled away, wiping his eyes. “Oh god. The syringe. That’s not heroine or anything. It’s testosterone. I buy it from a kid at school…” Grimacing, he turned away from me slightly.

“Well, no more of that. Okay? Please don’t buy drugs from high schoolers. They’re the worst to buy from.” Smiling wide, I hugged him tightly. “I’ll take you to see a gender therapist. I’ll take you to get prescribed testosterone. We can go shopping. I’ll buy you a binder. Anything you need I’ll get it to you.” Releasing him from the hug, I made him look at me. “

Please. Let me back in. Don’t be afraid to open up to me…” I was crying yet again. Jeez this kid was going to run me dry. “I know I work a lot and I’m not as available to you. I was so preoccupied with providing financially for you that I forgot what you need is for me to be here. I’m so sorry...” I paused for a moment. Realizing that I had no idea what to call him.

“It’s okay Dad. You are a great parent, really. I think I got lost in the fragility of being a teenager and forget that you are one of the most open minded people I know.” Laughing softly, he leaned back into me. Hugging tightly.

“But real talk. What should I call you now?”

After a few beats of silence, he pulled away from the embrace so he could look up at me. “I want to be called Kieran. There’s a reason for it.” The smile on his face was happy but his eyes softened to sadness. “Kieran means little dark one. Adriana is the female version of dark one.”

I fought them but the tears rolled down. “Your mother would be so proud of you. If nothing else, I hope you know that. Please, always remember that we will always be honored to have you as a child.” I cupped his cheeks in my hands, truly looking at this brilliant child of mine. Like his mother, he would always be infinitely wiser and braver than I’d ever be.


End file.
